“And if it turns out I’m telling the truth?”
“I’ll personally call a friend of mine with the Mexican state police tomorrow morning. Make sure they take a look into the matter.”
“Doesn’t sound very promising,” Vargas said.
Harmon snorted. “Welcome to life in a border town. Nothing promising about it.”
24
They kicked him out of the clinic at about 9:00 P.M., telling him to make sure he got plenty of sleep, with a suggestion that he not be alone for the next twenty-four hours in case his symptoms worsened.
Vargas had been alone for much of his life, and didn’t expect that to change anytime soon. He’d always thought that victims of concussion were supposed to stay awake, but was assured by the doctor that this was a complete myth. Sleep, he was told, would help him mend.
Which was a relief. A nice, comfortable bed sounded awfully good to him right now.
His base of operations was a Western Suites Express about five miles north of the emergency clinic. He caught a cab, moving slowly as he climbed in, and for one brief, terrifying moment thought it was Sergio behind the wheel.
It wasn’t.
The driver, who remained mercifully quiet during the ride, dropped him off at the curb in front of the motel. The charge was six bucks-highway robbery-and as Vargas paid the fee, he worried that his advance was almost gone. He’d have to start dipping into his savings to fund this little outing and wondered if it was all worth it. The visit to the clinic alone was going to cost him a bundle, even with the emergency medical insurance he’d been paying every month. His deductible was high and would take a large, painful chunk out of his net worth.
In the movies, he would’ve walked away from this without spending a dime. He would also be driving a sleek Jaguar or a refurbished Mustang-something with a roomier trunk at least-and would have an annoying but affable sidekick, along with enough clues right now to know he’d just hit the jackpot with the story of the decade.
Oh, and a girl. There was always a beautiful girl in the movies and a nice semi-nude encounter on the motel room sheets, concussion be damned.
Maybe that’s where the American woman came in.
Whoever she might be.
Being the big spender he was, Vargas tipped the cabbie a buck, then headed around the corner past the lobby entrance until he was in the motel’s parking lot, where about a dozen cars were parked.
He stopped short when he saw it.
His Corolla.
He didn’t know how the hell they’d managed to get it across the border, but there it was, parked under a light in a slot close to the building, its busted trunk lid tied down with a bungee cord.
Vargas’s gut tightened. Quickly scanning the area, he searched for any sign of trouble in the darkest pockets of the building-Ainsworth or Junior or Sergio waiting for him to come home.
Except for a lone woman crossing to her car, the place seemed deserted. And there was no sign of Ainsworth’s F-150.
Which didn’t mean a damn thing.
Vargas’s car hadn’t gotten here on its own, and he didn’t imagine that anyone who was willing to set him up in the first place would be likely to back down easily.
They knew where he was staying. Worse yet, they might even be sitting in his room right now.
So, what, he wondered, was his next move?
25
Playa Azul. Baja Norte.
Just another harbor town full of bars and trinket shops, as far as Beth could tell. People and cars crowded the sidewalks and streets, competing for room among the vendors and open-air restaurants that dominated the place.
Small children hawked Chiclets to unsuspecting tourists as their mothers sat nearby, selling colorful bead necklaces. Curbside stands offered painted plates and jewelry and Mexican blankets and T-shirts and sunglasses and lighters and knives and ornately carved ivory figurines.
And horse shit cigarettes.
There were signs everywhere advertising them. GENUINE HORSE SHIT! they proclaimed. Beth was no smoker, but even if she were, she’d have no desire to find out if this proclamation was true.
The first thing they’d seen as they strolled off the ship was a red, white, and green flag flapping in the breeze above the harbor. It was massive. The size of a building-leaving no question that they were on Mexican soil.
They traveled on foot, navigating the few short blocks past the fish markets and taco stands to the center of town, Jen getting appreciative stares along the way, thanks largely to a pair of cutoff jeans and a halter top.
She was, of course, just another crazy americano turista, one of thousands who circulated through Playa Azul on a weekly basis. But Beth was pretty sure that this didn’t keep some of the locals-particularly the gangbangers who cruised the streets in souped-up import cars-from fantasizing about Jen.
Images of Jen cavorting with Rafael on a rumpled stateroom bed suddenly popped uninvited into Beth’s mind, and she reeled them back quickly, doing her best to ban them from her consciousness.
But setting aside the ick factor for just a moment, she had to wonder if Jen was right about her.
Maybe she was a prude.
She hadn’t been lying earlier when she said that she sometimes envied Jen’s freedom. Even if much of her fearlessness was a mask for insecurity, maybe it was better than the one Beth herself had chosen.
She was, she had decided-long before today, in fact-a boring woman who led a structured, predictable life. She had taken the job with the DA because it had promised to be exciting, but she soon discovered that it held no real surprises.
There were laws; they were broken. You broke the law, you went to jail. Prosecutors rarely dealt in shades of gray.
The position was more about stats than truth and justice, about keeping your conviction rate high, and Beth was long past the thrill of winning a case. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt butterflies before closing argument.
It was a job, plain and simple. And it didn’t fulfill her any more than her marriage had.
Or her sex life, for that matter.
While Jen was working toward orgasm number two thousand whatever, Beth was still working on number one.
And who knows? Maybe that was why Peter had cheated on her.
“Oh my God,” Jen said, “look at these.”
They had been wandering the streets for what seemed like hours now, moving from shop to shop, finding a lot of interesting little trinkets but nothing they’d felt like spending actual cash on. The latest stop had been a right turn down a narrow alleyway lined with street vendors.
Beth, who had been pretending to admire a stack of Mexican blankets as she ruminated on her humdrum life, turned and saw Jen stopped at a small table lined with jewelry.
“What did you find?”
Jen held up two thin silver-tone rings, each with a small, flat black and silver carving of a hooded skull in place of the stone. The workmanship was borderline crude but oddly affecting.
“They’re wonderful,” Beth said.
Jen nodded and gestured. “Put out your hand.”
Beth obliged, offering the left one, and Jen slipped the ring onto her newly bare fourth finger.
“Perfect.” Jen took the second ring and slid it onto her own finger. “We’re officially best friends forever,” she said, then smiled. “With the devil.”
Beth laughed. “Been there, done that.”
She started to pull the ring off, but Jen stopped her.
“Consider it my way of apologizing for being such a bitch.”
“Jen, you don’t have to keep-”
“It’s either this or a pack of horse shit cigarettes. Which would you prefer?”
Beth smiled. “The cigarettes might be more appropriate.”
Jen stuck her tongue out, then turned to the vendor, a slender man in a T-shirt, jeans, and sunglasses.